The Lies They Tell

By Gillian French

With shades of E. Lockhart’s We Were Liars and Courtney Summers’s Sadie, this dark and twisted mystery set in a divided Maine seaside town simmers with unresolved tensions and unpredictable truths.  

Everyone in Tenney’s Harbor knows about the Garrison tragedy. How an unexplained fire ravaged their house, killing four of the five family members. But what people don’t know is who did it.

All fingers point at Pearl Haskins’ father, who was the caretaker of the property, but Pearl just doesn’t believe it. Leave it to a town of rich people to blame “the help.”

With her disgraced father now trying to find work in between booze benders, Pearl’s future doesn’t hold much more than waiting tables at the local country club, where the wealthy come to flaunt their money and spread their gossip. This year, Tristan, the last surviving Garrison, and his group of affluent and arrogant friends have made a point of sitting in Pearl’s section. Though she’s repulsed by most of them, Tristan’s quiet sadness and somber demeanor have her rethinking her judgments.

Befriending the boys could mean getting closer to the truth, clearing her father’s name, and giving Tristan the closure he seems to be searching for. But it could also trap Pearl in a sinister web of secrets, lies, and betrayals that would leave no life unchanged…if it doesn’t take hers first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperTeen
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780062642608

Gillian French

Gillian French is the author of The Lies They Tell, The Missing Season, and Edgar Award finalist Grit, which was an Indie Next List pick and received starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews and ALA Booklist. She holds a BA in English from the University of Maine and lives in Maine with her husband and sons. www.gillianfrench.com.

Book preview

One

THE LAST NIGHT the Garrisons set foot inside the Tenney’s Harbor Country Club, the windows were laced with snow. The weather report called for six to eight inches by morning, and three already lay crisp and untouched across the western expanse of lawn beyond the glass. The Garrisons would have their white Christmas. Mother Nature wouldn’t dare disappoint.

Pearl had the distinction of waiting on them. She was a small, spare girl with dark hair worn in a pixie cut and an odd cast to her eyes, which, upon closer examination, were two different colors, brown and blue. She said good evening and handed them a wine and spirits list while they looked through her, registering nothing, clueless that her dad had worked for them for nearly three years now and was, in fact, huddled beside a space heater in their gatehouse at this very moment, watching the Celtics on her tablet.

David Garrison ordered a scotch and water, his wife, Sloane, a white wine. Joseph, their youngest child at ten, frowned at the list and said, I’ll have a beer, which earned a laugh from his sister, Cassidy, and a "Hush" from his mother.

Tristan Garrison was absent; Pearl noted it as surely as everyone else in the dining room. Whispers had been circulating around the club for a week: the Garrisons were opening their Tenney’s Harbor home for the holidays, a first. Now one of their remarkable children was missing.

When Pearl returned with drinks and bread, Lou Pulaski, occasional golfing partner of David, came over to the table and clapped David’s shoulder. Back in the great white north, eh? Damned glad to see ya. Where’s your oldest tonight?

David’s jaw flexed as he shook out his napkin. He stayed home.

What—back in Greenwich?

A pause. No.

Pearl flicked her gaze at Sloane. She was looking down. So were the kids. Lou chuckled uneasily and lurched onto other topics, but for Pearl’s part, she was glad to take their orders and fade away.

When she reached the kitchen, one of the swinging doors was propped open, and a sparkly ball of evergreen dangled above it. A kissing ball. Some of the busboys stood around, grinning and waiting.

She spun on her heel and ran straight into Reese, who steadied her, his eyes a little bloodshot from the Christmas cheer he’d been into before their shift began. Watch it, Haskins, he said.

You watch it. She’d been watching him all night—somebody had to—as he chattered, joked, spilled pinot noir on table linens, produced origami geese from cocktail napkins for little kids, and flirted with ladies old enough to be his grandmother. Buzzed or not, he’d crush her in tips; he always did.

Behind them, Indigo Conner said, You guys, in a soft singsong, tapping the kissing ball, making it sway.

The chant began: Do it, do it. Pearl held her tray in front of her like a shield. I’ve killed men for less.

Reese smiled, shrugged, and stepped aside. As Pearl turned, he caught her face in both hands and laid one on her.

She closed her eyes, leaning in, tasting the hint of rum eggnog still on his breath. His fingertips slid up her temples into her hair. People were whooping and whistling, and when the moment finally broke and he let go, she staggered, as if the kiss itself had been holding her up.

Reese went into the kitchen without a backward glance, busboys pounding his back and ruffling his hair. Pearl wiped her mouth, then smoothed her club blouse and tie with hands that felt palsied and weak. When she looked up, Indigo was watching her.

The girl smiled a little as she passed, grazing Pearl’s arm hard enough to let her know she was there. Everything you hoped for, sweetie?

Pearl stared, a blush of volcanic proportions rolling up from her collar. She saw her next move so clearly: grabbing a handful of Indigo’s thick, curly ponytail, taking her down into one of the tables, china and crystal exploding around them, her own fists a pummeling blur.

In reality, her face burned and her eyes filled as she made for the patio doors. Damned if she’d let Indigo see her cry.

Outside in the dark, Pearl hit the clapboards and sank into a crouch, savoring the sting of the wind. Ten seconds. She could afford a ten-second meltdown. Then chin up, back to work, before that little Nazi Meriwether came out here to see who was wasting club time.

Fifteen minutes later, face washed, cowlick combed down, Pearl delivered the Garrisons’ entrées. She thought she sensed Cassidy studying her eyes, but that was nothing new. She hoped they didn’t still look weepy. From the direction of the kitchen, a faint cheer went up as the busboys caught more victims. Can I get anyone any—?

No. David’s tone was clipped. He didn’t look at her as he sawed into his roast duckling. Pearl gave a half bow and departed, careful to skirt Indigo and Reese in case the urge to tackle came on her again.

The Garrisons ate. Onstage, Steve Mills, who performed cocktail piano standards at the baby grand every weekend, launched into Merry Christmas, Baby. Once the Garrisons had scraped their bowls of crème brûlée clean, Steve said into the mic, Good to see some of our snowbird members, the Garrisons, joining us tonight on this Christmas Eve-Eve. A flourish over the ivories. Maybe you folks can help me convince Cassidy Garrison to come on up here and play a little something in the spirit of the season?

A momentary hush as people turned to look at the Garrisons. Asking a piano prodigy like seventeen-year-old Cassidy to play a little something felt like asking da Vinci to join in a game of Pictionary. Some reluctant applause followed.

Sloane whispered to her daughter. From where Pearl stood by the Christmas tree, it looked like she squeezed Cassidy’s knee under the table. Placidly, Cassidy pushed her chair back and walked up the risers to the stage as everyone clapped again, relieved.

Slender and erect, Cassidy sat, shook her hair back, placed her fingers on the keys. She may as well have been carved from ivory, cool and flawless beneath the recessed lighting, long pale hair streaming down the back of her midnight-blue dress. She didn’t look like any seventeen-year-old Pearl had ever seen, and Pearl had just turned eighteen last month.

Gloria in Excelsis Deo unfolded from Cassidy’s fingertips. She sang in Latin in a clear, glass-bell voice, words that Pearl couldn’t understand, but felt anyway. They made her eyes sting again, this time not unpleasantly, as she stood back among the twinkling lights and German blown-glass bulbs, witnessing what nobody knew would be Cassidy Garrison’s swan song.

The room didn’t breathe until the last note faded into the eaves. This time, the applause was thunderous. People stood. Cassidy said Thank you softly into the mic and returned to her family, who waited, unmoved by yet another command performance from the girl who’d brought down the Boston Symphony Hall at age eight.

The Garrisons left soon after that, shrugging on coats made from cashmere and the finest wool, Joseph laughing once, audibly, before the lobby doors closed between them and the night.

Gradually, the evening ended, members signing credit slips and wishing one another a merry Christmas on their way to the coat check. When Pearl went to the kitchen to put in a final dessert order, the kissing ball was gone and the doors were shut; the help was hangdog, meeting no one’s eyes. Meriwether had been here. The fun had been sucked from the premises like sunlight into a black hole.

At closing, Pearl waited by her car to make sure Reese was okay to drive. Ski cap on, hands tucked into the pockets of her Carhartt coat, she shifted from foot to foot, watching the back door.

When Reese came out, he was leaning on Indigo, much of his face lost in the thick faux-fur collar of her coat. Whatever he whispered in her ear made her laugh. Unaware of Pearl in the dark, they passed his car in favor of Indigo’s old Skylark.

Pearl sank into her driver’s seat, working her lips over her teeth, the familiar resentment back again, eating away at her. She started her engine when Indigo started hers.

She followed them down Harbor Road, the ocean a massive, brooding presence to her left. She kept her distance, watching the silhouettes of their heads in the headlight beams. The Skylark fishtailed lazily. Leave it to Indigo to drive on summer tires year-round. She was nineteen, living on her own, doing whatever she damn well pleased.

Pearl lived on Abbott Street, Reese on Ocean Avenue, but they wouldn’t turn in there, she was certain. She stayed on them until the stop sign, where the Skylark went into a slow spin, swinging into Main Street and stalling out in the path of a plow truck. The horn bellowed. Pearl reached out as if to catch them, her lips parting without sound.

The Skylark rumbled, gunned, and reversed into the opposite lane, dodging the plow by what looked like no more than a foot. It sat cockeyed for a few beats; then the tires spun, and it drove on.

Pearl released a shuddery breath. Knowing those two, they were laughing right now. Look what we almost did. Look how close we came.

Or maybe they were laughing at her. Maybe they’d known she was there all along, stalking them through a nor’easter with her heart pounding, nose running, clothes full of the smell of roasting duck, only to confirm what she already knew: they were going back to Indigo’s apartment, to her bed, and what they did there would be more than Pearl had ever done with anyone, because the only person she’d ever wanted to do it with was Reese.

She went home to the silent little house on Abbott. She showered, left a light on for Dad, who wouldn’t be back until four a.m., then curled up under the covers, staring at the wall. She’d never been so sick of herself. She wanted to wriggle out of her skin and kick it away like a clammy bathing suit, somehow erase the memory of kissing Reese back, right in front of everybody, the perfect, desperate fool.

Sleep shunned her until almost midnight. Outside Pearl’s window, snow continued to fall.

At the same time, on the other side of Tenney’s Harbor, the Garrisons were burning in their beds.

Two

Six Months Later

THE BOYS HAD been in the sun—tennis, maybe, or just back from the yacht club. Their brows were damp, postures loose, recuperating. They sat around the table like young guys do, taking up a lot of room, unconcerned by the stares they drew from members and waitstaff alike, lips moving in whispered conversation.

Pearl watched them, breathing shallowly, feeling panic, exhilaration. He never sat in her section. Now here he was with his entourage, the boys of summer, owning the place.

She gathered three menus and went to them, playing the part. Can I start you gentlemen off with some drinks? Her voice sounded stiff, an octave higher than usual.

If Tristan Garrison knew her, he gave no sign. That was the way with summer people; they were perfectly comfortable not knowing the locals who prepared their food, changed their sheets, or those, apparently, who were drowning in the undertow of their personal tragedy. Water, please. His voice was quiet, dismissive. He did not look at her.

Tristan’s fair skin bore the touch of late June sunshine, but he’d grown thin since winter, still leanly muscled from the racquetball court and hours on the treadmill. Pearl knew the raised veins on his forearms, the faint frown line between his brows that hadn’t smoothed even with the arrival of his wingmen. She studied him whenever he came into the dining room, gripped by the physical and emotional recoil she—and most everyone else—felt in his presence. Alone. He was so alone, even in a room full of people, and maybe in that they shared some kinship.

Iced coffee. Cream, sugar, shot of espresso. Don’t put too much ice in it. The boy across from her sat tipped back in his chair, his white tank top contrasting against his deep brown skin, designer ball cap cocked at an angle. The club had done away with the gentlemen-must-wear-a-jacket-and-tie policy long before Pearl began working here, but there was still a certain dress code to be maintained, and Akil Malhotra was way below par. Pearl knew him by sight. Everybody knew the Indian kid who’d stolen the golf cart last summer.

The boy on the left was one of the Spencer grandchildren. He had the look: shaggily blond, deeply tanned from living at the family compound in North Carolina the rest of the year. He smiled at her, his gaze moving from her face to her breasts and back again. Surprise me. A faint southern accent, honeying every other word.

She blinked. Very good. One more quick glance at Tristan before she left.

She took orders at two more tables, meeting Reese’s gaze on her way to the kitchen; he was waiting on Mimi Montgomery-Hines and her friends, a tableful of elderly ladies who wore ropes of beads and big hats and bright lipstick, like an inverted version of a little girls’ dress-up tea party. Mimi adored Reese; the maître d’s knew to seat her in section three without being told. Reese dropped Pearl a wink without breaking his stream of banter, and the sun-washed room rang with women’s laughter.

The bar was unmanned, so she grabbed a bottle of San Pellegrino from the cooler herself. Tristan always drank San Pellegrino. Someone’s fingers stole over the back of her neck, and she smiled, knowing it was Reese.

Hiya, twinkle toes. He went around the bar, took the lid off the blender, and dumped in ice, lime juice, triple sec, tequila.

You’d better get out of there before Chas comes back.

Hey, he’s taking a whiz, my table needs drinks. You think I don’t know how to make a margarita? He put a swizzle stick in his teeth, commenced chewing. C’mon, c’mon, what do you need?

Iced coffee: cream, sugar, espresso. And I’ve got a guy who wants me to surprise him.

Slap on some pasties and come out singing, ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President.’ Works every time. He pulled the coffee pitcher out of the fridge and poured.

You know from experience, huh. She waited as he gave the blender a blast. Isn’t it kind of early in the day for those?

Haskins. What have we learned about the rich?

She sighed. That it’s socially acceptable for them to drink more in a day than we do in a week.

Right. And since it’s now—he checked an invisible watch—just a hair past noon, Mimi and her cronies need a pick-me-up so they can make it till cocktail hour. Salt some glasses for me.

Looking over her shoulder (you never knew when Meriwether might decide to do a walk-through, attending to her assistant managerial duties with grim fervor), she went to him and ran a lime wedge around the edge of the margarita glasses, dipping them in coarse salt. Being this close to Reese O’Shaughnessy was like standing beside high-tension power lines. She felt the energy thrumming through his wiry, not-quite-six-foot frame, and the abruptness of his movements, careless, sloppy, but still getting the job done. His auburn hair fell into his eyes, and she put her hands in her pockets to resist smoothing it back. Friends didn’t stroke each other’s hair. She was pretty sure that was in the manual somewhere.

Who let the Prince of Darkness out? Indigo’s low voice made Pearl turn. The girl leaned on the bar, one hip angled out, watching Tristan. She somehow managed to make the uniform of green-and-gold-striped tie, white blouse, and black slacks look like sex on wheels, as if it had been specifically tailored to her. Pearl’s size-small blouse hung loosely, and she had to wear a belt to keep the slacks from slipping down her nonexistent curves. Looks like the posse’s back in town. Indigo turned her cool gaze on Pearl. Lucky you.

Reese filled the glasses. Bet he leaves a killer tip. Buh-bum-bum. Indigo and Pearl made identical sounds of disgust. Jesus. Warn me before you go all highbrow, girls. Indy, what do you need?

I’m still waiting for my surprise. Pearl hoped she sounded light and breezy.

Reese mixed cola and grenadine, garnished with a maraschino cherry. Roy Rogers. Unless he’s ninety, he’s never heard of it.

Pearl loaded her tray and left, straining to hear what was said in her wake. Indigo: Pitcher of mimosas and a sex on the beach. Just make it, before Reese could say anything. Possibly a good sign. Those two were notoriously on-again, off-again, though they’d never been officially on, and if they were off now, Pearl doubted she’d be notified.

She set the glasses down in front of the boys. The Spencer grandson bit into the cherry immediately. Tristan didn’t glance up at her; he had his phone out. Have you decided? she said. Tristan continued with the touch screen, letting the other boys order before him. Whatever he chose, she knew he wouldn’t eat it.

When she turned to go, Pearl paused to let the maître d’ lead a party of two past her. The couple spoke in low tones, casting looks Tristan’s way. He seemed unaware, or maybe he was used to it by now, his new normal. Pariah.

Tristan had always garnered stares, but originally it was because he was a Garrison, a National Merit Scholar, already a first-string lacrosse star in his freshman year at Yale. Tall, strikingly dark-eyed, brown hair carefully maintained to a half inch above his collar. Now his hair was longer, ignored, his style off-the-rack, though he possessed more personal wealth than most of the members would ever know, which was no small statement. It seemed everyone felt fascination-meets-revulsion in Tristan Garrison’s presence, followed by but the police cleared him; they let him go, didn’t they? Somehow, it wasn’t a comfort. Not at all.

When Pearl brought the boys their entrées, the Spencer grandson said, Well, damn. You’re amazing. How’d you remember all that? as she set his plate in front of him, a Reuben on panini bread, spicy mustard and dill spears on the side.

I can read without moving my lips, too. You’d be surprised. She bit the inside of her cheek. She could almost hear Reese say, Your filter, Haskins. It’s broken.

Instead of looking embarrassed, Spencer grinned, lopsided and guileless. If that’s an invitation to get to know you better, I’m up for it.

She cleared her throat. Would anyone like another drink?

Akil snorted. Burn.

She’s just doing her job. Spencer’s ease was unshakable as he held up his glass. This is great, by the way. What’s in it?

Roy Rogers. She tucked the collapsible stand and tray under her arm. Enjoy.

She snuck a peek back. He’d turned all the way around in his chair to watch her go. Heat creeping into her cheeks, she did a little bobbing and weaving to lose herself in the crowd.

Chas was back behind the bar, hopefully none the wiser that the underage waitstaff had been at the helm, and Reese was at Mimi’s table, which at that moment exploded with hooting laughter. Hard to tell what was going on, exactly, but Reese had a cocktail umbrella tucked behind his ear, and everyone’s glasses were almost empty. Pearl studied Mimi, a small, plump woman in a purple linen short set, her gray hair curled under her chin. Mimi was one of the

Reviews for The Lies They Tell

[kmartin802_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This twisty mystery takes place in a town in Maine where the townies and tourists are sharply divided groups. Everyone knows about the Garrison tragedy where the father, mother, sister and younger brother of Tristan Garrison on Christmas Eve. The house was set on fire to conceal the fact that they were all shot to death. Tristan is the only survivor because he was away skiing with friends. Pearl's father was the night watchman and lost his job and most of his other rich customers as a result of the tragedy.When summer comes again and with it Tristan and his rich friends, Pearl who works as a waitress at the country club decides to see if she can find out what led to the tragedy. She wants to clear her father's name. Catching the attention of one of Tristan's devoted followers, she insinuates herself into the group of rich kids and discovers all sorts of secrets about their lives.She even becomes fascinated with Tristan who is having difficulty rebuilding his life though he hasn't lost his grip on his social set. Her investigation is also jeopardizing her relationship with her best friend Reese. Although their relationship is already changing as Pearl realizes that she wants him as a boyfriend at the same time that he is building a relationship with another girl.I liked the family dynamics in this story as Pearl tries to cope with a father who is turning more and more to alcohol and a mother who left the family but still wants a relationship with Pearl. The mystery was intriguing too.

[beamis12 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Tenney's Harbor, Maine a place with a large influx of the summer families, those westhy families who live in the big houses. Pearl, seventeen, lives here with her dad who is a caretaker for those big estates. Pearl herself works at the country club serving the wealthy. Then something happens, one of the family's estate starts on fire, a fire that will cause the death of four members of the family, except for the teensge son Tristan who was away at the time. Pearls life changes as her Dad is unofficially blamed for the fire, or at least not stopping whoever set it. It will cost him many of his caretaking jobs as many cancel his services.Pearl decides to investigate by becoming friends with the son and his friends. I enjoyed Pearls loyalty to her father, loved how she wanted to find her own snswers. Of course she finds things that spurs her on, and this turns into a nice little mystery. Written for the YA audience, no blood no gore, I appreciated this straightforward mystery, something little found in adult thrillers nowadays. Took me back to my Nancy Drew past. The ending a little predictable, but did enjoy the journey to get there.ARC from Edelweiss.

[sennebec · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It takes a special writer to 'get' the essence of Maine when writing fiction. Nowhere is this apparent than when creating a story that features natives VS PFAs (People From Away). In this dark and gritty story, Gillian French nails both groups perfectly. Having grown up near the coast and later serving as library director in a wealthy Maine community, I know of what I speak. The characters, setting and slow reveal are all done just right, leaving those still standing at the end, scarred, but with enough hope to keep going. The ending is perfect.

[purple_pisces22 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was my first book by Gillian French and I really enjoyed it. The story wasn’t exactly original, but I was deeply involved in helping the main character figure “out who did it”. Some of her choices aren’t the best, but this is an 18-year-old character. Looking forward to reading more by this author.